6 months, 2 weeks, 6 days
by AmeliaLaufeyson
Summary: Post Reichenbach and Johnlock feels with a bit of oh lord sorry I can't write fanfiction.
1. Chapter 1

It was terribly hollow, empty; a seemingly endless pit where daily routines became futile, conversation became pointless. Breathing was dull. Eating was hard. And it had been exactly 6 months, 2 weeks and 6 days since the death of his best friend and the world's only consulting detective.  
_"But who's counting," _said a small, sardonic voice in the back of his head.  
John Watson sat as he always did, in the chair facing an eerily empty sofa on which a violin was perched gently against the pillow. A cold cup of tea sat on the table, the only fresh thing in the room, that only item that wasn't coated in a thick layer of dust. But he couldn't bring himself to drink it.  
Mrs Hudson walked in quietly, placed a tray on the table and took away the cup of tea. She and frequent visits from Lestrade, Molly and even Mycroft kept him in something attempting to resemble good health, or at the very least made sure he had food in the fridge and took almost regular showers. They could only manage his exterior though, and even bright-spirited Mrs Hudson had given up on trying to get through to him after the third month without Sherlock. Now she flashed him the occasional pitiful smile between bringing him sandwiches and cups of tea which he rarely touched unless made to. He knew he owed her so much, should say thankyou or just nod or give her some minor form of acknowledgement, but he had taken to silence unless he was being subjected to conversation. He helped out the police with minor investigations to sustain a living, found himself noticing more than he ever would have. It hurt, it reminded him of everything, but he couldn't go back to being a doctor and remember how lost he'd been and the hope and excitement he'd found at 221B Baker Street, how oddly amazing his friend had been and how everything was better, even the limp, which had returned two weeks after he'd seen the detective fall to his death. It felt like John had died, too.

Mrs Hudson walked back into the room with a hopeful air, only to have her face fall at the untouched tray of food. John found her boundless optimism endearing, but he couldn't… just couldn't do anything. He could barely help himself, lacked the energy to please everybody else. He knew Mycroft wanted closure on Sherlock, wanted to hear about his last moments. He knew Lestrade thought he was the next best thing and wanted more help than he was getting. He knew dear old Mrs Hudson just wanted him to talk and eat and sleep. But he couldn't.

She shuffled over, grabbed the tray and murmured to herself, "We need milk."  
John looked up at her. She seemed to have aged 20 years in the space of 6 months and her smile lines were replaced with weary marks across her forehead from frowning and crying. Countless grey crept through the folds of her usually immaculate hair. He felt a wave of guilt at failing to notice how badly the people around him had been affected. Selfish.  
"Milk, right. Got it," he declared, standing up and grabbing his coat. Mrs Hudson looked shell-shocked.  
"Are you sure, dear?" She asked hesitantly.  
"Of course," he replied, giving her a hug, hoping he could fix something. Time to get his act together. Even if it was just enough to fool the people that cared about him.

He walked through Regents Park, rain heavy against his back and neck as he refused to turn his coat collar up, almost laughing at how little thing like that could remind him of Sherlock and bring back so much. He seemed to black out during the walk, not thinking, his legs moving purely from chemical memory.  
It wasn't an uncommon feeling.  
Turning a corner, he walked into the nearest corner shop, sighing and marching towards the freezer section, pulling open the door and grabbing a heavy, litre-carton of milk.  
The door swung shut.  
John stopped, and groaned. The reflection.  
Sherlock stared at him from the glass, cold, calculating, looking somewhat uneasy. It wasn't new, it had happened a few times. Mostly in the first few weeks. But he couldn't deal with this, not now, not when he could get better.  
"John."  
_'No, no, god no, please no. He doesn't talk, he's never spoken. I can't do this.'  
_"John Watson."  
His breathing was heavy and laboured. He pinched his forehead, closed his eyes, hoped the man behind the counter didn't notice the tears rolling down his cheeks.  
"Go away," he hissed, not turning around. "Stop this, you bastard. Leave me alone."  
"John-"  
"I said _go away._"

A hand, on his shoulder.

He drew a rickety breath, lifted a shaking hand and touched the one gripping his shoulder. Too real, far too real.

Turning around, and _'No, no. He looks like him, it's too good.'  
_  
"John, it's me."  
"No."  
"I promise."

He looked Sherlock in the eyes. Too good to be true. But it was all there, every frown line and curly piece of hair and prominent cheekbones and sharp jawline.  
"Please, Sherlock…"  
The elderly man behind the counter didn't seem to find this conversation strange. He dared to hope, for a second.  
"John, I'm sorry."

The milk fell to the floor, splitting and spilling everywhere, finally getting the attention of the shop owner.

And it was him and the tears rolled freely. John opened his mouth and left it like that while he found the words.  
"Do you even know-" he choked.

"I'm so terribly sorry. John, let's go back home and just let me explain everything."  
"6 months-"  
"I know."

John Watson paused. He composed himself, regulated his breathing, straightened his coat. Sherlock let him, didn't say anything.  
The silence hung. The detective allowed him all the time he needed. He began to speak, choked, closed his mouth.  
He looked up, hesitated again- drew back a fist and punched Sherlock hard and square in the face. The surprised detective clattered to the floor, stunned, before slowly picking himself up, shaking his head and holding his nose. It bled freely and a magnificent purple bruise already began to form on his cheek.  
"Fair enough." He said calmly. "Let's go."


	2. Chapter 2

They spent the rest of the walk home in silence – of which there was plenty of time for, given the ridiculously long-winded route Sherlock had them take down alleyways and across roofs to avoid being seen. John shuffled behind him, still shocked, wanting to believe he was back but scared that any minute he was going to wake up.  
6 months was a long time to keep hoping.  
Finally, Sherlock had them scale the external stairs of an apartment block until they were on a floor par with their flat at 221B. With a deep breath, he imitated the detective in a massive leap from the one building to theirs, forgetting to bend his knees when he landed which made his legs buckle, John topple over and smack his head on a rung in the process. "Ouch." He held his forehead as Sherlock opened a window with ease and gestured towards it in a graceful 'you first,' expression. John stepped inside the apartment and pulled his hand away from his head, both of which were semi-covered in his blood. "Shit." He tore some kitchen paper from a roll on the side and held it to his wound.  
Sherlock stepped in behind him and closed the window to turn around – _He even does that elegantly, _thought John – and take in the dishevelled apartment.

John groaned internally. This was the man who could tell him Harry was back on the booze from a crease in his left sleeve, and god knows what he would think of the flat. His eyes scanned every dusty book, the heavily-stained coaster from the same, untouched cup of tea, the newspaper that lay on the table, the one from _that day _that was coated in a thick layer of grime like everything else in the room. He watched Sherlock absorb it all, his gaze finally resting on the violin and his obviously unused sofa.  
He turned to John and opened his mouth to speak before losing the words.  
_Speechless? _Thought John. _God, this is a day for new ones.  
_They stood there for a moment, before Sherlock straightened his collar – to which a voice in John's head said _Old habits…_ - and looked him in the eyes with the same searching expression he'd used to study pond life or refrigerated fingers.  
"John…"  
"6 months."  
Then Sherlock did the strangest and most uncomfortable thing he could think of, opening his arms and embracing John in the world's most distant hug. They stood like that for a moment, awkwardness radiating from every pore, before John squirmed out of the grip, explaining to the detective, "I appreciate the sentiment. But I think a 'sorry' will suffice. Six months – were you _ever _planning on letting me know that, I don't know, you were _alive?_"  
Sherlock brushed his coat down and cleared his throat. "I would have thought you'd move out," he murmured, ignoring the question.  
"As one of the _greatest minds of our generation _once told me, alone is what I have. Alone protects me." His voice was dripping with sarcasm but he doubted it would register.  
"No," he recited. "_Friends _protect people."  
John swallowed a lump in his throat. He ignored the fact that Sherlock saw it and was almost giddy with unease. He was yet to grasp emotion.  
"Well my friend went AWOL for a while." He argued. "So did my protection."  
Sherlock moved the violin to one side and sat down on his couch, gesturing for John to do the same opposite. It was such a familiar site that for a moment, he was happy.  
"That's what I need to explain, John. I went missing _for _your protection." He nervously threw a glance over his shoulder, which was noted with a, "No hidden cameras, Sherlock."  
"Moriarty had snipers on you, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade. Risk one life for the price of three? I think not, and he knew I wouldn't. I get that from you, that caring thing. I always said it didn't help, and look where it's gotten me." John shrugged listlessly, nodded at him to carry on. "But you can't have really thought I was dead, could you?" He did the searching stare again, and didn't look pleased with what he found.  
"Your little visits to my, uh, gravestone-"  
"You saw those," John groaned.  
"- indeed. You said you never lost faith in me, which was quite contradictory considering you were talking to a slab of granite."  
"Normal people do that, Sherlock."  
"And I refuse to believe that you, John Watson, are normal."  
Well it was the closest Sherlock got to a compliment and he took in good grace, experimenting with a small smile that felt foreign on his face which was tight with frown lines, the edges of his lips pulled downwards with he imagined were heavy, lead weights. It probably looked completely strange, but if it did Sherlock didn't notice, or care. On an afterthought, the latter was more likely. _Sherlock notices everything, _he reminded himself. He received a quick smile in return, before Sherlock leaned forward to explain.  
He was interrupted by undeniable footsteps on the stairs outside.  
"Mrs Hudson," John mumbled. "She went to see Molly, I think. She's back," he noted, obviously.  
"It appears so. John, stand guard. You may need to catch her."

After his time with Sherlock and the times without him he'd spent with his equivalently odd brother, he'd learnt not to question strange, random requests. In fact, complying seemed to be the quickest way to find out what was happening, so he stepped towards to door, glancing at Sherlock who stood up and perched himself casually against the sofa, cheekbones and upturned collar and all.  
"What the _hell _do you think you're-"  
"Trust me," he ordered.

He huffed indignantly as the door swung open, Mrs Hudson shuffling in with plastic bags full to the brim with groceries, somewhat insulting to his milk-buying skills, until he remembered the split carton which had been left deserted on the shop floor for the surprised keeper to clean up.  
"John dear, I just saw Molly, darling she is," she said, sorting through the bags. "She helped me grab so-"  
She looked up, saw Sherlock, who gave her a sheepish wave accompanied by a quiet, "Hello, Mrs Hudson."  
"Oh dear," she muttered to herself as her legs buckled.  
She fell to the floor, stopped by John's arms as he caught her and carried her over to the sofa, where he laid her down.  
He looked down at her white face, and back at Sherlock who studied her with cautious interest.  
"Couldn't you have-"  
"No," he interrupted. "She'll wake up in about 15 seconds. Put the kettle on, John."

Another exasperated sigh which seemed to be the only fitting response for today's events as he padded into the kitchen, flicking the switch on the kettle and watching the water bubble. He let himself fall slightly until the only thing supporting him was the kitchen counter, throwing his head into his hands and taking some deep, shaky breaths. "He's back," he mumbled into his palms. "He's bloody back." He raked a shaky hand through his hair as the screeching kettle became quieter and the small lever sprang back up, his cue to grab a few mugs from an overhead cupboard. As he pulled the door open, he heard a shriek from the living room which was quickly muffled and then followed by hushed explanation. Listening intently for a moment, he still couldn't make out the quiet, now two-sided conversation.  
He pulled the three mugs down, clinking them together and almost chipping the edge of one, placing them on the side and glancing at the pot of tea leaves on the shelf before deciding it wasn't worth the effort, pushing the cupboard shut and instead pulling out a cheap packet of Sainsbury's home-brand teabags. A minute later and he walked into the living room to greet a surprisingly composed Mrs Hudson and placed the tray on the coffee table, watching as the two of them calmly picked up their individual cups, Mrs Hudson placing a spoonful of sugar in hers and Sherlock sniffing his suspiciously.  
"For God's sake Sherlock, I haven't poisoned your-" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Fine, whatever, be strange." That seemed to satisfy him.  
"It's not you I don't trust, John." Punctuated by a shifty look to the door.  
"Well if anybody breaks in and puts arsenic in our teabags, I'll let you know."  
"By the way," Sherlock began, looking up from his tea. "I kept an eye on your blog. No updates?"  
"You never read my blog," John stated.  
"Well there was nothing to read."  
"Nothing happened."  
A pause. "Well considering the current circumstances, I doubt that will be the case for long."  
_And back to the mysterious statements, _he thought. _The whole 'we know but not really, actually I know and you're stupid," _routine.

The three sipped for a minute, in silence, as John eyed Mrs Hudson suspiciously.  
_Looks like you'll be the one to break the silence, _he thought.  
"Mrs Hudson, I'm sorry but you seem terribly-"  
"Calm?" She asked, too quickly. "Yes, much calmer. I _was_ shocked when I saw Sherlock, but I guess I, uh, always had… faith?" Now it was John's turn to look apprehensive. She sighed. "Oh, I never could lie. You tell him, dear," she said turning to the detective.  
"Tell me what?"  
Silence hung for a moment "In on it. Mrs Hudson knew, I had her informed." He took in John's open mouth and wide eyes. "By Mycroft, he knew as well. He was aware of my situation, helped me out. I couldn't fake a death by myself. I'll assume Mrs Hudson here was informed when she had some difficulty handling your… state of mind." Sherlock shifted awkwardly.  
"Just wasn't expecting a visit so soon," Mrs Hudson informed him.  
"You?" John half asked and half accused, pointing at the middle-aged woman who looked like she was trying to sink into the sofa. "Yes, dear. But I couldn't tell you, it was for your own safety," She assured him. He laughed manically.  
"Well isn't this just bloody gold," he said aloud, to nobody in particular. "Lestrade?"  
Sherlock looked offended. "No, God no. He's an imbecile. An acquaintance, but an idiot all the same. Not at all trustworthy. Molly, yes. But Lestrade… and you'd think I told Anderson next."  
"Molly!" John cried. "Fantastic!"  
"She helped me."  
"Oh, I'm sure she did!"  
The two watched him bemusedly as he imploded. "You," he exclaimed, glaring at Sherlock, "Are the most irritating, difficult, frustratingly cryptic… for a genius you're pretty damn stupid!"  
"So I've been told."  
"Impossible."  
"I think you covered that."  
"I hate you!"  
"Are you quite finished, John?" He asked suddenly, impatiently.  
John sat up slowly, straightened his coat and held his head high, pouting. "Yes. You don't deserve it, I shouldn't stop. But yes, I'm finished."  
"Good. Because I believe I have a family gathering in order."

_Oh! A Holmes family gathering, the epitome of fun,_ said his conscience, as incredulous and disbelieving as he felt.  
The taller man waited for him to compose his self as much as was possible before looking pointedly at the door, and then back to John. "You don't have to come, John."  
"Shut up, you know I do." He said gruffly, grabbing a scarf and wrapping it tightly around his neck. Hail hammered against the window now, in a loud, drumming rhythm.  
Looking satisfied, Sherlock turned to Mrs Hudson, squeezing her hand and saying, "Stay safe." To which she replied, "Of course, dear," with a smile and a quick hug.  
John glared. "I hate you," he reminded him.  
"You mentioned," he said, unphased, walking towards the door with John in tow. "Shall we?"


End file.
